Break the Pattern
by midfielder
Summary: They are watching each other, trying to catalogue each type of smile, every crease on each other's faces, any indication of real or put-on emotion. Patterns are in the behavior. The pieces are unraveling. A/N: snippets of interaction given a little spin.
1. Something

Break the Pattern

They are watching each other, trying to catalogue each type of smile, every crease on each other's faces, any indication of real or put-on emotion. Patterns are in the behavior. The pieces are unraveling.

"Christmas."

"Now we all look forward to seeing how she works that into conversation."

FBI humor. It isn't bad. Maybe even decent. But there's bias because anything that makes her smile usually works for him, even if only for the rare opportunity of seeing her eyes light up in a playfulness that he has a growing liking for.

But the timing is off. Anxiety he feels to the tips of his fingers, and it is enough to squelch any other feeling and undermine other lines of thought, overall compromising his focus at pretending.

Through the blur of moving bodies, her gaze settles on him perched on the table.

He knows that she can _see_. But he can't be bothered to break his stare and tuck away his concern.

When she approaches him, he stands up, abandoning all efforts at pretense.

"I'm going with you."

---

"You didn't have to come with me, you know."

The believability of lies is founded on the smallest kernels of truth. That's why he doesn't like calling them "lies", but instead modified truths. He rummages through the scraps of his past and stitches together a line.

"Shady deals with shady guys in shady hotels is my M.O."

The delivery is wanting, he scolds himself inwardly; he couldn't quite get rid of the seriousness in his tone.

"And typically, if someone is going to kill you..."

_Good, no flinching and blinking._

"...it's a good idea to have an ally in the room."

_No facial nor body movement betraying nervousness._

"I'm not scared."

One of the upsides of being a good liar is that you are almost always as good in detecting lies as you are making them. He doesn't hear a quiver in her voice, not a shred of self-doubt. She even manages a matter-of-fact smile. He respects her confidence, and has long admitted to himself his admiration for it. He recognizes it in himself and understands that the thrill and the fear, all tied up and tangled in a knot in your stomach, is a unique high. Unique but dangerous.

_You need someone to be scared for you, Liv._

"Being fearless doesn't mean you're being safe."

The intention is to remind. But he feels a shift in her demeanor that may signal taking offense - the slight smile turning into one of her patent pursing-of-the-lips. She wants to say something but decides against it, physically closing up and turning away.

"Astrid, how're we doing?"

She discontinues the conversation with him, perhaps smelling what a load of hypocritical bull that which just came out of his mouth. Once, not long ago, wasn't _he_ the risk-taker? Playing the black market, making shady deals with shady guys in shady hotels…not terribly unlike this?

Or maybe the sentiment is, "You being here is going to keep me safe?"

You don't, can't take back a lie that has been disclosed, even if it left you some kind of a minesweeper disaster. Credibility is seldom retrievable and the only alternative is to modify the lie even further, making it closer to the truth to salvage any convincing element to its original form. But she has disengaged and there is a burning itchiness in his throat that he still has to either swallow or spit.

_I needed to come with you because you needed an ally who knows how shady guys work. _

_Modified truth._

_I needed to come with you because I need you to be safe ._

_The closest thing to the truth I can get in light of self-preservation._

He manages to scrounge enough sense to swallow, instead of spit.

Shady deals are diametrically opposed to honest confessions, no matter how refreshing and atypical the gut-wrenching sincerity is.

---

He has studied many faces and have tried them on in different situations, in varying degrees of danger and risks. He's practiced them enough to be able to flit through them with the speed and sly of a seasoned card player and the confidence of a man with nothing to lose.

Nothing has changed. He still cannot lose what he is not in possession of.

Except maybe, the proximity. Except that _she_ is here. Right now, right across him, a pulsing light that not even the black hole of fringe craziness could deter or extinguish. The idea of her makes the idea of him learning to handle these new faces not too alien; care, fierce protectiveness or pained worry he didn't wear often and well, but he can try.

And that, that was _something_.

If the experienced liar in him wins out over the self-deception tactics he has installed around the perimeter of his consciousness (notices the squeeze in his chest when he finds out she has been dodging bullets, tackling bioterrorists; detects the way his eyes seeks out and locks in on her in the crowd; recognizes that the rush of warmth to his face isn't entirely because of the alcohol; acknowledges that earning her respect is a huge chunk of what motivates him to put up with this crazy shit), who knows?

It might even turn out to be everything.


	2. Over the phone

She crashes on the bed, more exhausted than she has been in recent memory. She wills her body to still and her breath to slow down, settling in a steady pace and easing into a comfortable depth.

But she knows that sleep will not come tonight.

There are just too many questions. And this set is particularly disturbing because it included too many I's.

Did _I_ really do that? Shut off each light with _my_ mind?

Was _I_ treated with Cortexiphan? If _I_ was, why don't _I_ remember any of it?

Apparently, it isn't enough that this insanity has taken over most of her waking life; it has decided it had to consume her – her very being – and permeate her existence. Now, she has to grapple with the fact that she just might share more than sympathy for the victims of fringe science experiments in the cases she handles day in and day out. That she just might, in fact, be one of them.

The feelings she once just vicariously lived through them - the injustice of being a test subject without their consent, of being victims of "unintended" effects, the betrayal of their innocence being taken advantage of by people they trusted, and the demoralizing agony of being powerless to control their actions, their fate - she now feels gripping her in pulse-quickening anger. She feels robbed, cheated. She has devoted her life to her country, to crime-fighting, to protecting what she believed was important: family, their basic right to safety and, to her eyes, their infinite potential for happiness. But now, in what may be the cruelest demonstration of irony, it turns out she can't even protect herself.

She bits her lips, and that may be blood she's tasting.

"Damn it." The frustration bubbles up to the surface and she lets it burst. She doesn't like losing control, but when she does, she thinks it's better that it happens when she's alone than in front of anyone else. She doesn't do well with an audience, especially if it includes someone who has eyes as keen and perceptive as one Peter Bishop.

The mental detour suddenly brings her to another, less otherworldly question.

_Why did he come back?_

This question isn't as self-threatening as the others. She latches on to it because she can exercise some degree of control over this. She reaches for the phone on the bed stand. This is unorthodox for her; she didn't make social calls. But she convinces herself that she needs this.

_I can, will get an answer.  
_

"Hey, it's me."

She exhales, a bit of tension relieved along with the release of breath.

"So, how did the date go?"

No matter how foul a mood she is in, she finds that she has to smile at that.

"Ah, not good. He stood me up. Tore a gaping hole in the wall when he left."

"Jerk. Well, that'll teach you to pick a teleporting nutjob over me. Next time, always pick the one who promised you drinks, okay?"

Again, smiling. _How does he do that? _

"I'll keep that in mind."

"The offer still stands, you know. My way of saying thanks for not letting me die tonight."

The mention of the incident gets her back on track.

"I told you; I didn't do anything, Peter."

"Yeah, I know. But even if mis-directed, I have to express my gratitude. I'm especially eloquent when drunk."

"You can express your mis-directed gratitude by answering this: why did you come back?"

There's a pause, which means he's thinking about how to answer or how to charmingly evade the question.

"My turn to play the devil's advocate: if you didn't think the light box was rigged, that it'll shut down on its own, why did you come back? You had to have some hunch that it wouldn't blow up. It's that or the alternative: you're suicidal."

She wanted him to flip the line of argument.

"Neither. I'm a betting man, 'Livia. I'm familiar with high stakes."

"I would think you're smart enough to not gamble with your life."

"Sweetheart, that's practically what I did when I signed up for this."

Another pause, as if he was daring her to comment.

"Anyway, if there's one thing I've learned from that colorful aspect of my past, it's that you have to have confidence in your bet."

"Your bet was on me?"

"I told you I'm more eloquent when I'm drunk. But to rephrase...some people call it faith, I think."

As in many cases, when she gets an answer to her question, it's never in the form that she wants, and usually not something she expects. But in an odd way, she comes to an understanding.

"Thanks, I think."

"No problem, sweetheart. So about that drink...rain check?"


End file.
